


Revelation

by HiMiTSu



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7450321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiMiTSu/pseuds/HiMiTSu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a tumblr prompt from thechristythings: I recently saw Man of Steel and thought what if Lex and Clark started talking about how difficult their childhood was and that they both start to understand the other better.</p><p>This went a little differently than the prompt suggested but the main idea is the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> ! I admit I didn’t want to go the usual way and have them get a heart-to-heart, so I came up with this idea instead. I hope you can still enjoy the story:D (This was written with the scene from Man Of Steel in mind. I’m sure you’ll understand whihc one)

Clark remembers running – a flash of a memory that takes center in his brain and won’t budge. His head hurts like someone is drilling into his temples and he clamps his hands over his ears but it’s of no use. The noise is _inside_ ; it is in his mind and makes him lose control. The sense of reality is slipping away, destroying his tentative grasp on the situation. He is on his knees but he doesn’t remember falling, the concrete is hard and cold even through the Superman suit. If only he could remember…if only he could recall coming here, what here actually is…

Why is it so cold? Why is there no one..?

Clark is sure he didn’t come alone. There was someone…someone weak so Clark had to put him at his back, despite the mistrust between them. Someone brilliant who managed to figure out the passcodes and get them inside. Someone with a shrill voice, that rang in Clark’s ears when they got ambushed and separated. Someone with bright blue eyes that shone with anger and fear as the other person got dragged away. His name…what was his name!

But Clark doesn’t remember. Doesn’t understand.

His vision is a blur – only a dark corridor ahead in a sharp focus.

And he runs.

No.

He _remembers_ running. But it’s a wrong memory. This one is old and faded and so drenched in fear Clark knows instantly that it belongs to a child. Unable to resist he goes along with the vision, lets it carry him away.

So Clark runs. The corridor is long, the lights are dimmed, and the wooden floor squeaks under his sneakered feet. He knows this one. And, even though there is no childish laughter chasing him out of the classroom or worried calls of Ms. Rampling he dashes away down the passage that seems more gloomy than it actually was and barrels into the closet on his right. The small room is filled with darkness despite his mind insisting there should have been a light on – a single bulb casting unpleasant yellow glow. It’s not there now. It’s a small detail but it makes him uncomfortable, like his own skin is too big for him.

He squirms but finds a place on the floor, folding his small body in a familiar position. Hands wound around bent knees, an illusion of protection.

A sounds echoes outside – footsteps. And a sudden fear rushes through Clark. _Father._ One word filled with such terror it sends shivers down his spine. A scream rises in his throat and he clamps both hands over his mouth to stop it. Tears are falling down his face as he chokes on the cry; he is shaking so violently his teeth would be chattering if he wasn’t keeping his jaw shut forcefully. Anything to stay unnoticed.  

In a distant part of his brain Clark understand that this makes no sense. In his childhood he had never been afraid of his father. Jonathan Kent was a strict man but he was loving and caring; never in his life had he made his son feel this way.

Clark feared the outsiders, all those classmates who laughed and then shunned him, all the teachers who looked at him with either pity of fear. The world around was scary but home was one place where he always felt safe.

This makes no sense – it’s the last moment of clarity before a new wave of dread overwhelms him.

The steps draw closer and he shoves his head between bent knees, hoping to make himself smaller, praying to go unnoticed. He mutters under his breath, every word a silent plea to any deity that would listen. The panic is rising, it’s wave like a familiar blanket enveloping him, and he rocks and mumbles with growing desperation.

_Please, no._

_Please, help!_

And as always his plea goes unnoticed. Never an answer. Never a savior. The door is pushed open, bright light illuminating an intimidating figure from behind. Clark cannot see the face but he doesn’t need to. A word slips past his lips, unbidden. “Father.”  It’s a whimper so weak and pathetic it breaks Clark’s heart.

The intimidating figure doesn’t respond; Clark could barely make the tight set of his jaw through the light hitting his sore eyes.

He is so scared. God, he is so scared, how does he make it?

Clark knows now that this memory he is reliving does not belong to him. And the big hands reaching for the small figure can not hurt him, had never hurt him, but he whines and backs away, sliding on polished wooden floors.  He thrashes and screams but the huge figure of a father is meticulously calm as it grabs his shoulder and drags him out.

Last rays of the evening sun warm up the western gallery and it’s a terrifying dissonance with the ice cold fear inside him. He still fights and tries to get away, but he is too weak in the face of this man.

Clark screams Lex Luthor’s fears out and cries his tears and rips himself away from the memory before it takes the turn for the worst.

He comes to on the floor of a small cell, windowless walls made of concrete. There is no door but he doesn’t need one, burns a hole right through and stumbles his way out. The room beyond has a couple guards but mostly people in lab coats who watch him in fear. Clark doesn’t bother with them – just as they don’t bother trying to stop the Superman as he tears his way through the compound in search of his accomplice.

It seems they were mostly relying on technology to keep him subdued and when he managed to shake off the mind control they have no other means to fight. Clark can’t care less. A memory still burns in his mind, the echo of terror resonating in his chest. It hurts, it hurts so much he has to ball his hands into fists to keep the emptions in.

These people are not the man from his dream – that one is a shadow of the past, long dead but still haunting – but Clark still wants to punish them. Instead he crashes the compound, breaking through walls in his search.

Finally he comes across the lab that is a mirror image of the one he broke out of. It’s abandoned already, devoid of people but with the tech still running. There is no need to scan the place – he sees the cell in the corner and knows what he will find inside. Who he will find.

With trepidation Clark burns out the hinges of the door, barely noticeable chrome on sterile white, and carefully pulls the slab of metal aside. He is cautious of what he might see but steps inside nonetheless; he can’t wait to get away from this place and purge the memories burned into the backs of his eyelids.

“No!” A shout startles Clark and he backs out a step even before his gaze finally lands on Lex Luthor. “Leave me alone.” It’s a snarl but it lacks any fire so Clark dares to move in instead.

He doesn’t know what to say, Luthor looks distressed and agitated; Clark wishes he could know what the man is seeing. Which one is it, he wonders as he crouches in front of the redhead. “I’m here to help.”

Luthor shakes his head violently. His pupils are blown wide while his eyes look around wildly, seeing what his mind has concocted. No, that’s not right, Clark reminds himself, seeing whatever they pulled out of _my_ memory. But which one?..

Luthor digs his fingers into the red curls and closes up as if his hearing hurts, squeezes his eyes shut like he tries to shake off the visions.

“Stop,” a strangled mutter is barely heard over his rapid breathing. “Stop the whispers.”

It’s as if he is going into a panic attack, but Clark had never had…

“Oh,” he knows with unexpected clarity what is torturing Lex Luthor right now. “How can I help you if you won’t let me in?” He asks, just because he needs to be sure.

“The world is too big,” Luthor spats out. The words come out against his will and the tone is a far cry from Clark’s own, weakened with desperation and hanging on a hope that his mother could help him. Luthor delivers the line with spite and bites on his lip to keep the rest in.

“It’s alright,” Clark promises in his best soothing voice. His mother’s words make the memory bearable, make the world alright. “Just focus on my voice.”

He needs to shake Luthor out of this daze, probably as soon as possible so that they can get out of this awful place. But first Luthor needs to shake off the spell that had engulfed him. This memory is not so terrible but only because Clark always concentrates on what comes next – his mother’s love as she talks him down, makes the too big world melt away and shrink to only two of them when she smothers him with a hug. It’s obvious this part is unreachable for Luthor, who is stuck with the fear and confusion that young Clark had felt.

“L…Lex,” Clark calls out in a soft voice. “Just focus on my voice. You are alright. You are alright now.”

Luthor’s eyes find his, the mad haze falling from them as a flicker of recognition sparks up. He is not there yet but Clark is reluctant to bring up Martha’s next words, that precious gift that belongs to him alone. But also he isn’t sure mother’s love would be enough to help Lex Luthor.

“I’m here to help.”

Luthor’s eyes light up at that. “Help?”

Clark swallows around the lump in his throat and nods. “Yes.” He knows now. And he is not backing down. “I’ve come to save you.”

He reaches out, tentative not to spook. Luthor is trembling and he crosses his arms and hugs his midriff protectively; but his eyes, his eyes are keenly watching Clark’s outstretched hand. Carefully, with a hand that is shaking violently, he reaches back.

Clark waits until Luthor’s fingers, ice cold and delicate, land on his palm, testing, and then with more confidence grab his hand. Clark pulls him out into the light, away from the confines of the cell, and Luthor falls against him, weakened by the ordeal.

“Is it over?” Clark asks just as Luthort mutters, “I’m fine.” And pushes away. Though he is in no hurry to put as much space between them as possible like he usually does. Bloodshot eyes glare back more out of habit than out of anger.

He is so subdued, it makes Clark wonder if the memories, enforced on him by their captors, had changed something in him. Like it changed Clark. It’s not enough to make him like Luthor, but it is a tiny piece that makes him understand the redhead better. Clark didn’t ask for this, but now that he has it, this shadow of terror that haunts this man, he will cherish it. He will treat like a precious part it is; to better know his enemy, to better understand him. So that, one day, he might be able to help.

And by the way Luthor looks back at him, astonished, Clark thinks maybe he is not alone in his revelation.

 

 

 


End file.
